


I Will Find You

by hiddenhibernian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Horror, Impersonation, Mindfuck, Ministry of Magic, Psychological Horror, Pureblood Culture, Romance, Underworld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-11 10:56:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11712969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddenhibernian/pseuds/hiddenhibernian
Summary: Draco is gone and a stranger has taken his place, speaking with his voice and pretending nothing has changed. Hermione will do anything to find him and bring him back to her, no matter what Lucius Malfoy is willing to do to prevent her from marrying his son.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the WIP Big Bang on LiveJournal and is unbeta-ed as of yet, so if you notice any mistakes please point them out!
> 
> PatriciaTepes made some amazing art for the story here: http://patriciatepes.livejournal.com/89371.html

“Did Ferret Boy finally get enough?” Ron pulled out a chair opposite Hermione; the screech was almost drowned in the deafening din of the lunch-time crowd. “Haven't seen him around for a while – did he leg it while he still had the use of all his limbs?” 

“Very funny, Ron. Draco is away on business – I thought he told you he wasn't coming to the quiz on Thursday?” Hermione looked dubiously at her Caesar salad – in her experience, lettuce leaves shouldn't spring back when prodded with a fork. 

Ron plonked down his BLT sandwich on the table. He got the same lunch every day. Any hints about the benefits of a varied diet was countered by Ron asking if they had seen the state of the hot food the Ministry considered suitable for its employees. 

“Yeah, but I thought you had plans, or something,” he said. ”Malfoy usually has some decent-sounding excuse, and then I find out he was doing something soppy with you instead. Harry and Susan are hopeless with politics, we need him on the bloody team.” 

Hermione didn't even bother offering to help – the intricate rules of the Auror pub quiz were a mystery she hadn't bothered to explore, but she knew outsiders were strictly banned. “In this case it can't be helped – he's doing something for the Malfoy estate.” 

“Like what, giving the house-elves new socks?” 

“How would I know – do I look like a Malfoy to you?” 

“You'll be one soon.” Ron didn't need to point to her engagement ring to remind her, and she rushed to correct him for the umpteenth time. 

“I will be married to one soon, you mean. I have no intention of ceasing to be Hermione Granger.” 

Ron rolled his eyes. “Not this again. I only have twenty minutes for lunch, I don't have time for the whole lecture.” 

“Don't make stupid comments, then.” Hermione stuck out her tongue, immediately losing any high ground. 

“The-Boy-Who-Was-Late.” Ron didn't even look up from his sandwich. “Didn't think you were going to grace us with your company today.” 

“A bit rich, coming from someone who disappeared from the interdepartmental meeting at the tea break and never came back,” Harry said. 

“I have cases!” Ron had opened his bag of crisps, so his rejoinder was a bit muffled. 

“What do you think I do all day, play fantasy Quidditch?” 

“How was the interdepartmental meeting, anyway?” Hermione asked. 

“Did you weasel out of it as well? Am I the only person who goes to these things?” Harry screwed up his face in an effort to remember, while taking a giant bite of his cheese and ham sandwich. 

“I have cases too, you know.” Hermione's cases were sometimes the same as Harry's, only further down the line. His report writing had improved since Hogwarts, although she recognised his tendency to use minimal referencing. Hermione was training in Magical Law – referencing was practically her hobby. 

“That reminds me, what's happening with the Hobart case? Is it coming up next week? Only I've got night duty on Tuesday...” 

The conversation drifted into shoptalk for the rest of their lunch break. Hermione walked back to her desk feeling vaguely uneasy. It wasn't Ron's poor eating habits or the distinct possibility Harry might fall asleep in court that worried her. 

Something else was niggling at her, refusing to come into the open. 

The vague unease was still there as she pushed the door to their empty flat open, kicking aside the day's letters. Living with Draco Malfoy meant any Muggle post automatically was for her – you wouldn't catch a Malfoy doing something as prosaic as signing up for the electricity bills (admittedly, mostly because they only had a nebulous idea of what electricity was). 

Draco's letters were gilt-edged affairs, delivered by snooty owls. Hermione got charity newsletters and bills. Library fines, too – she must remember to return the books to the Muggle library this weekend, or they would probably have her hung and quartered if she darkened their doors again.

She sighed and picked up the letters, stacking them neatly on the table in the hall before shuffling to the kitchen, morosely inspecting the state of the fridge. 

Draco, despite being an Auror which apparently was the hardest job known to wizardkind, usually managed to knock off in time to go to the supermarket. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had made it further than the corner store. It looked like she would be paying an eye-watering markup for a tin of beans tonight again, unless she had the patience to wait for a takeaway. 

Only complete losers Apparated to their parents to raid the fridge. 

Maybe she was too tired to eat – the vague feeling of disquiet had morphed into lethargy, and lifting her arms and legs suddenly seemed like a labour of Hercules. A good night's sleep would set her right, and she was bound to have an owl from Draco by the morning.

* * *

Hermione listlessly lifted the spoon, but as soon as her lips touched the beige substance she grimaced and put it down again. 

There had been no owl anxiously pecking the window to be let in when she woke up. 

Unaccountably, they had run out of cereal, too. She had found an ageing box of Weetabix at the back of the cupboard, but when it came to it she couldn't bring herself to eat it. Breakfast in the Ministry canteen wasn't much better than lunch, but it was hard to ruin cornflakes. 

Sighing, she poured out the unappetising mess in the sink – presumably intended for people who thought porridge was too exciting in the morning. 

Last night, she hadn't even unpacked the case notes she so optimistically had brought home, so gathering her stuff for work didn't take long. All that remained was to make herself vaguely presentable, and she could Apparate in. 

Draco's abandoned toothbrush next to hers in the bathroom made Hermione stop in the middle of taming her hair, standing forlornly with the hairbrush in her hand in yesterday's robes. 

He had been gone for three days now, without a word. 

They weren't the type of couple to sit in each other's pockets – not like Hermione's colleague Luke, who seemed to spend most of his breaks writing to his girlfriend on a piece of enchanted parchment. Despite working in the same Ministry department, Draco and Hermione didn't even meet up for lunch most days – between shifts and court appearances she was lucky to catch one Auror out of Ron, Harry and Draco on any given day. 

It was a relief to know Draco had told his parents they were going to get married months ago – at least she didn't need to worry about his absence being some twisted attempt at abduction. 

Hermione had seen enough of Lucius Malfoy over the years to expect anything, but according to Draco he had barely reacted to the announcement that more than fifty generations of pure-blood Malfoys were coming to an end. No one expected him to turn up for the wedding, but Hermione still held out some hope Narcissa might. 

She had chosen Draco over Voldemort when Harry had seemed almost entirely defeated – at least she loved her son more than anything, no matter what blood prejudices she still held. 

The fact that Draco had apparently been dispatched on some family business indicated his transgression had been forgiven – or at least that his parents had decided there was nothing they could do to prevent it. 

Some Slytherins – Blaise sprung to mind – may have seen the chance to welcome a war heroine into the family an opportunity to associate oneself with the new regime, rather than the old one. 

No one could accuse the elder Malfoys of inconsistency, at least. 

Hermione had watched Draco going from cocky Inquisitor to haunted Death Eater, all the while being true to his sulky self. After the war, he had mostly seemed confused, disappearing from her radar. He had turned up at the Ministry, filing her field reports in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. 

The Ministry didn't turn its nose up at an opportunity for free labour under the War Crime Probation program, but when it came to actually getting a job Draco had soon found he was beating his head against a brick wall. Having witnessed the ravages of the war on the non-human sentient population of the wizarding world, Hermione had been disinclined to sympathise with his plight. 

What did he expect, a pat on the back and a medal for being an incompetent Death Eater rather than a good one? 

Grudgingly, she had been forced to admit Draco had not seemed to expect anything. He had simply filled out the application form for the next vacancy and sent it off, only to receive a rejection letter by return owl. 

A sunny day in March, stuck in the dusty offices of the Being division, curiosity got the better of her and she popped down to the archives. Malfoy was there as usual, so she just asked him straight out. 

“Tell me, Malfoy: why the triumph of hope over experience? Why do you keep applying for any job going? Surely, you don't actually need a job.” The Malfoy fortune had been relatively untouched by the war, a fact that did not endear the Malfoys to the general population. 

“Now that the great Hermione Granger deigns to speak to me, everything will be different.” Malfoy didn't even look up from his filing. “If only I could change my house affiliation retrospectively, I would be made.”

“You never seemed to be bothered about nepotism when it went your way.” Hermione remembered the endless references to 'my father' at school, and felt an unwelcome pang of sympathy. No matter how repellent, Malfoy had been a boy who looked up to his father, only to find he didn't measure up in any conceivable way. 

“I don't throw what you did at Hogwarts back in your face, so maybe you could extend the same courtesy to me.” 

A burning shot of adrenaline had Hermione open her mouth to inflict as much damage as possible, before sense prevailed. 

“I think most people would agree that the list of things I did that are still worthy of being thrown back in my face is a bit shorter than yours,” she said more mildly than intended. 

Malfoy looked up briefly for the first time, with surprise rather than scorn on his face. “That may be so. Still, I never resorted to knitting to reach my ends.” 

Perversely, Hermione was getting irrationally curious about what exactly he was hiding. “Now you're just avoiding the question. Come on, it can't be that bad.” 

“Fine.” Malfoy slammed down a handful of manilla folders on his desk. “Pursuing the traditional career path in my family hasn't exactly met with unalloyed success. I've decided it's time to try something different.” 

Despite her best efforts, Hermione was impressed. “Well, good luck with that.” 

“It hasn't been a stellar success so far, either.” Malfoy swept up his folders and set off down the row of bursting bookcases, holding several centuries' worth of division paperwork. 

Hermione was left staring at his back, cursing her tendency to fight battles no one else considered worthwhile.

* * *

The power of nepotism was frightening when one was on the receiving side. Hermione merely pointed out that discrimination based on crimes committed when the witch or wizard was underage was quite illegal, not to mention likely to attract exactly the sort of unflattering press coverage the Ministry wanted to avoid. The official she had been pointed to stumbled over the words in her haste to convey that the matter would be looked into urgently. 

Making her goodbyes, she wondered if this was how Lucius Malfoy had felt in his heyday. 

She was convinced she merely was nudging the Ministry along to do what it should have been doing anyway, but wasn't that what he would have thought as well? Hermione felt more comfortable once it occurred to her that Lucius Malfoy would never be found second-guessing himself – even after Voldemort's comprehensive defeat, he preferred to barricade himself at Malfoy Manor and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. 

Which made it even more surprising that his son was choosing a rather different path for himself. 

Hermione was intrigued enough to visit the archiving section more often, until Malfoy caught her red-handed. 

“You've already checked out all Dubois' population reports from the thirties. Please don't tell me I'm your latest project, or I might just have to slit my wrists quietly behind the Miscellaneous locker.” 

Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had blushed, which made the tell-tale heat in her cheeks even more embarrassing. “Don't be ridiculous. I'm just trying to do my job – it's hardly the crime of the century to forget I already had all of Dubois in my office. Somewhere.” 

“Nice try. I'm afraid your suddenly poor organisational skills fail to explain this.” He pulled out a piece of parchment and Hermione squinted to read it at an angle: 

“We are pleased to announce your acceptance to –“ Disbelief made her temporarily mute, but then her voice returned with a vengeance. “The Auror training programme? They're taking you on to become an Auror?”

“Surprised, Granger? Be careful what you wish for, and all that.” He sneered at her, rolling up his parchment again like it was something precious. 

Being a Gryffindor, Hermione sought refuge in absolute honesty. “I didn't think Harry would take you on. Or that you even wanted to become an Auror – you realise it isn't exactly a desk job?” 

“Oh no, are you serious?” he moaned theatrically. “I love it so much here, too.” 

Hermione had assumed Malfoy's surly appearance had more to do with losing the war than disliking his job, but she was willing to concede both reasons may contribute. That wasn't her main issue, however. “Not to put too fine a point on it, it's a little bit like giving the children the key to the sweetshop as well, isn't it?” 

“If you could stick to one metaphor it might be a bit easier to translate your question to English, but I'll give it a go. I take it you're referring to my ever so stylish tattoo?” Malfoy shook the sleeve of his robe back to expose the faded grey area on his arm. If he was playing for effect, he was going to be disappointed – even when it had been black, his Mark had failed to scare Hermione. 

“I was thinking about your relations, actually – how many of your aunts and uncles have been on their hit list? Even Sirius was the most wanted in Britain at one stage, if I remember correctly.” 

He snorted. “You're forgetting Cousin Nymphadora – being an Auror is virtually a family tradition.” 

“Except her mother was blasted off the family tree before she was even born. Come on, surely you must have a better reason than that.” 

Malfoy gave her a long stare, filled with so much loathing she almost took a step backwards. “Or what, you'll tell them to pull the offer?” 

“Or nothing.” Hermione held her ground, meeting stare with stare. “I'm just curious. Plus, I'm hardly the last person who will ask why Draco Malfoy decides to join the Aurors, so you can see it as practice.” 

The look of dismay on his face was almost comical. 

“Come on – surely you must have realised Rita Skeeter will be all over the news? Not to mention the other people on the training programme. Unlike Rita, you'll probably want to speak to them.”

“Fine,” he told her between clenched teeth. “Perhaps you can give me marks?” Draco jutted out his chest – it didn't go very far – and raised his chin so he was looking down at her at an angle. Hermione recognised the pose from his mother (minus the chest bit). 

“Joining the Aurors is the best way I can think of to make sure the same fuckwittery doesn't continue in the next generation. Thanks to my upbringing,” he casually tapped his left arm, “I also happen to have a thorough grounding in the Dark Arts.” 

Hermione stared at him. He was tall – well, taller than her – and blond, and his chin was definitely pointy. His accent was so posh consonants randomly got lost when he was speaking, and he was even paler than the rest of the Ministry staff. It was definitely Draco Malfoy who was standing in front of her, unless Polyjuice was involved. 

“You know,” she said when she couldn't stay quiet any longer, “you might actually pull it off.” 

“That means a lot coming from you,” he said, perfectly serious. 

Hermione lip quivered until she couldn't help herself and burst out laughing, and against all expectations Malfoy joined in. She couldn't remember seeing him look so happy since he had been on the Inquisitorial Squad.

* * *

Draco raced through the admittedly abbreviated Auror training program and emerged as the first Malfoy Auror in recorded history. 

Hermione ran into the new recruits at the Leaky Cauldron. She recognised Perkins from Hogwarts, saw the gaggle of purple robes and copious amounts of alcohol being consumed, and remembered the day's headlines from the Daily Prophet had announced that the third batch of Auror recruits since the war were graduating today. 

Harry had not said much about Malfoy – perhaps there was too much history. Once having shared a common room with Perkins had not prevented him from moaning about her lack of attention to basic spells, preferring the more exotic option, but Malfoy was different. 

Still, Hermione wondered how he had got on. 

She tried to spot him in the crown but failed – the noisiness of the group initially disguised there were only a dozen or so of them, and due to his hair Malfoy was usually easy to find. Pushing past the Aurors she tried to fund Seamus, whom she was supposed to be meeting, but there was no sign of him. 

Given that she was fifteen minutes early and Seamus usually was late for everything it was hardly surprising, so she picked a table in the corner. 

“Drowning your sorrows alone, Granger?” someone said in her ear as she was trying to bring her gin and tonic back from the bar without splashing half of it on the way. 

She spilt half of it on her robes before she realised who it was. “On the contrary – I might even raise my glass to you.” Swallowing most of what was left, she did, only to find him clinking his wine glass against hers. “A word in your ear, Malfoy – I think there's a law Aurors have to drink beer, not wine.” 

“You'd better tell my colleagues – they made Tom get the tequila out half an hour ago.” Malfoy nodded to the bar, where someone was racing through shot glasses like they were going out of fashion. “They make me feel middle-aged, and I'm not even thirty yet.” 

Hermione looked at the fresh faces currently cheering on the shot drinker to finish the line and tried to imagine herself in their place. Even if the war hadn't happened, she didn't think she ever would have climbed onto the bar to lead the chorus singing “A Wizard's Staff Has A Knob On The End” at the top of her voice. 

Malfoy cut her ruminations short. “Don't think for a minute that I'm trying to say we're the same, because I know what you lived through is in no way comparable to my experience,” he told his wineglass. “It's just –“

“They weren't there, in the thick of it,” Hermione said quietly. “Unless you were in the war, you can't understand what it was like.” During her final year at Hogwarts, there had been an invisible wall between the fighters who had survived the Battle of Hogwarts and the rest of Gryffindor. It had been harder to gloss over when they lived in the same quarters; Auror training must have brought the same proximity. 

“Exactly.” Malfoy cast her a relieved glance, and Hermione giggled. “What?”

“It just struck me this is possibly the first time you've ever agreed with me.” 

“Don't get too used to it.” Malfoy's smile was crooked. 

“Hermione, me oul' flower, how are ya?” Seamus didn't even notice someone else had been sitting next to Hermione as he came barging in. 

“Drop the leprechaun act, Finnegan – you're late. You only talk like that when you're trying to weasel out of something.” Hermione was annoyed, but she wasn't quite sure if it was with Seamus, Malfoy or even herself. 

“Ah, come here, now – sure, I'm only a piddly twenty minutes late. Terribly sorry I am, too,” he added quickly as Hermione's eyes narrowed. 

She didn't see Malfoy again that evening, Seamus' colourful renditions of his love life keeping any passers-by away from their table. 

He didn't go away – somehow, Malfoy had inveigled himself into her mind and become a permanent resident somewhere at the edges of her consciousness. She noticed him at the Ministry, where she passed him in the corridors several times a week. He intruded on her precious free-time, too – even when she had queued patiently for her favourite table at the bookshop-cum-cafe near her parents and curled up with a pile of new books, she kept wondering about Malfoy. 

The enigma turned out to be her undoing. 

Hermione was constitutionally incapable of leaving well alone, no matter how many times Ron and Harry implored her to, and the puzzle of how Draco Malfoy had gone from snivelling coward to – to something else was too fascinating to pass up. 

That she didn't quite know what he had turned into made even more interesting in a post-war world where a staggering number of people claimed to have been sleeper agents for the Order of the Phoenix when they haven't even heard about Grimmauld Place. 

At least Malfoy had the guts to admit he had been wrong – or had he? For some reason it seemed very important that she should find out. 

If he could change, despite being born into pure-blood prejudice, there may be hope for the rest of the wizarding world. Having lived through one war already, Hermione was not keen on repeating the experience in ever-shortening cycles. Something had to change, and she had far rather people did it themselves for the right reasons than because they were forced to.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione spent the better part of the autumn trying to untangle the mystery of Draco Malfoy. 

Surprisingly, he didn't seem entirely adverse to being unravelled – perhaps it was the lack of intellectual discourse among his fellow Aurors that made debating magical history with Hermione Granger an appealing prospect. 

They weren't friends, as such – more like sparring partners, enjoying discussions with someone else who delighted in using words with more than three syllables. 

Hermione wondered how things would have turned out if they had been encouraged to mingle at Hogwarts, instead of being pushed apart by their warring houses (and Draco's tendency to be a complete arse). 

Draco frequently had no idea what she was talking about, even when she mentioned commonly known things like the EU or the dotcom bubble. Talking to her plugged gaps in his education he hadn't known were there, and to his credit he seemed interested in overcoming his ignorance. 

Hermione, on the other hand, appreciated the richness of the wizarding world seen through Draco's eyes – one couldn't learn everything from books, and Ron wasn't exactly the observant type. Pure-bloods, apparently, were not too dissimilar to Muggle aristocrats in many ways – mainly by being completely bonkers without any compunctions whatsoever. 

They had become friends slowly, like grape juice becoming wine by the turning of the seasons. Becoming lovers was easy, by comparison – Hermione barely had time to realise she only ever had been interested in men who already were her friends before she woke up with a head of pale blond hair in her bed. 

“I didn't think you'd hang around,” she said before she could stop herself. 

“Slytherins sleep around far less than Gryffindors do, you know,” Draco said absent-mindedly while burying his nose in her hair. “We prefer to trust people before we fall sleep with them. I'm here for the duration, Granger – got a problem with that?” 

Hermione thought about the implications: their friends, her parents, his parents, the bloody _Daily Prophet_ – before she decided it didn't matter. You couldn't live your life according to what other people thought you should do. Draco looked like he belonged there in her bed, under the Marks and Spencer sheets her mum had given her as a moving-in present. 

They could worry about the details later.

* * *

“Have another croissant – you've barely eaten anything.” Pushing the jam towards her, Draco looked the picture of content with barely-there stubble on his chin, the Sunday papers spread out in front of him, and a neglected cup of tea balancing precariously on the edge of their kitchen table. 

“I'm not hungry,” Hermione mumbled. 

Ever since Draco had returned from his travels, clutching a bunch of enchanted lilies – usually he hated lilies, the scent and the pollen were just too much – she had been on tenterhooks. 

On the surface, things were almost too perfect. 

Draco had apologised profusely for his longer-than-planned absence, three tufty owls had turned up with his letters after apparently being misdirected, and their wedding plans were proceeding apace. He had even figured out who to put next to Great-Aunt Muriel on the seating plan – of course it turned out she was related to Draco as well.

Percy Weasley would have to grin and bear his fate, and presumably Blaise Zabini's mother could look after herself. 

Even when they had got engaged, Hermione had not been very fussed about the wedding. The thought of being married to Draco came with a tiny thrill, especially considering what they had gone through to get to where they were now, but post-wedding life would go on as it had before, albeit possibly with more crystal vases and enchanted clocks. 

At the moment, the wedding was simply a useful distraction while she figured out what was wrong. 

Little things, like Draco picking up her book to read in bed instead of his own, contributed to her unease. 

Last night, he had been late back from work because he had gone for a few pints with Jenkins. Hermione had been wading through four boxes of appeal documents submitted half an hour before the deadline that afternoon, so she had not even been home to miss him. 

It was only that Draco could not stand Jenkins. 

Slytherin to the core, he would never let on to anyone other than Hermione, but there was no way Draco would let himself get into a situation where he was forced to speak to Jenkins for several hours when he wasn't even working. 

“I might go to The Burrow for lunch today,” she announced, tossing the Quidditch section to Draco before she got stuck into the _Prophet_. 

Draco caught it before it slid down on the floor. “May I come, too? It's been ages since I went.” 

He was right – it had. Hermione had a standing invitation for Sunday lunch with the Weasleys (“Heaven knows one mouth makes no difference, so just pop in when you can, my dear, and we'll be happy to see you”). Theoretically, Draco was also included. In practice, his relief at being released from attending was only matched by the other guests' delight that he yet again had decided to abstain himself. 

To voluntarily join the Weasleys and their multiple spawn, to use Draco's own words, was unprecedented. 

He got on with Ron and Harry as long as they could pretend they did not actually like each other, but even Hermione had to admit a house full of his former enemies were a step too far. She wasn't exactly going to join the Malfoy family reunion either. 

Which made Draco's current enthusiasm downright alarming. Maybe it was a Slytherin double-bluff? 

“Do – I'm sure they'd be happy to see you,” she said, would-be unconcerned while looking at him from under her lashes. 

“Great. Leave at one o'clock?” Unfortunately, Draco was usually able to out-Slytherin her.

* * *

The Burrow was hiving with shrieking children and boisterous adults doing their best to make it impossible to speak without shouting. Hermione was starting to fear that the rain outside meant they would all be crammed into the kitchen for lunch, giving her no chance to speak to Ron or Harry privately. 

A sudden clearing of the sky and an impromptu Quidditch match cleared the house of most people between five and fifty – Hermione managed to catch Harry's sleeve as he was heading out, or else he would have led the charge. 

She nodded towards Ron's old room and Harry reluctantly climbed the staircase with her. 

“What's going on – are you going to tell me off for going over budget again? It's not my fault the Goblins demand every single document should be translated, up to and including my cloakroom tickets.” Unfortunately, Harry caught a glimpse of Draco rapidly rising in the air outside, which wasn't likely to make him more amenable to vague suspicions with no real basis. 

Harry, despite being an Auror and colleague of Draco's, was not Hermione's first pick to have this conversation with. It was either him or Ron – she wasn't going to discuss Draco's inner workings with his fellow Slytherins, and between the two of them Harry certainly had the edge. 

She sighed – better make the best of what she had, rather than lament what she had not. “Have you noticed anything odd about Draco?” 

“What, like the fact that he's given up on the whole pure-blood thing?” 

Hermione sighed again. “Since he came back from his trip to the South of France.” 

“When did he go to France?” Harry frowned like this was the first he heard about it, which would have been more convincing had Hermione not known his desk was opposite Draco's. 

“Two weeks ago, Harry. Don't you approve his holiday requests?” Only in the wizarding world did reporting lines include former mortal enemies without inviting any comments whatsoever. Two civil wars in living memory had made most Muggle workplace concerns seem immaterial. 

“Well, yeah, I sign them. When I get around to it. I expect people to make sure their shifts are covered themselves.” 

Hermione had never been out of the office for more than a day without leaving three foot of parchment with instructions behind, but she had long since realised Aurors operated differently. 

It was, however, mildly concerning to find out they did not even register if their colleagues were in or not. 

“Be that as it may, Draco was off for ten days for family business. Then he came back, two weeks ago. Have you noticed strange anything about him in the last few weeks, other than not being at his desk?” 

Harry's brain had finally started operating on all cylinders, and he gave the matter proper consideration. “He was very apologetic about missing quiz night.” 

“What?” It was worse than she had thought. 

“Yes.” Harry had grasped the gravity of the situation. “He was awfully sorry to let us down, and when I said we'd lost with fifteen points he apologised again.” 

They stared at each other. 

“Anything else?” 

“He's been unusually friendly with Jenkins lately. Not that I mind,” Harry rushed to clarify. “I had to get the men's loos fumigated twice last year because they kept hexing each other when having a piss.” 

Hermione was suddenly deeply thankful she was a witch – at least some areas were off limits. “Maybe they struck a new chord of friendship?” she suggested, with little hope. 

“Possibly. It must have happened just after Draco gave me a list with 64 reasons Jenkins should be placed on permanent desk duty, though, so I doubt it. If I could only remember when it started – was it before or the last interdepartmental meeting?” He screwed his eyes shut, trying to remember. “Definitely after – he didn't use the new memo format.” Which meant the list had been before Draco had gone away. 

Harry looked unusually serious. “At this point I think I had better ask you what you have noticed?” 

“This is not an investigation, Harry,” Hermione reminded him. 

“No, but it could become one. He isn't working in Magical Maintenance, you know – if there is something going on, chances are it has to do with work.” 

“Unfortunately, he is also a Malfoy. The Dark Arts are not just an occupational hazard.” 

“True.” Harry looked unusually pensive. “Hermione, don't take this the wrong way, but is it possible that –“ 

“What?” 

“I'm not saying that's what it is, but...”

Her second “What?” was quite sharp. 

“You don't think he might be seeing someone else?” slipped out of Harry all in one go. He watched Hermione anxiously as she considered. 

“No,” she said at last. “First of all, Draco wouldn't be that stupid – if he ever decided to have an affair, the last thing he would do would be to let on anything whatsoever is up. He could easily have said he'd gone for pints with Blaise instead of Jenkins, for example.”

Harry was looking tremendously relieved at not being hexed to kingdom come. “But it could explain him being more distracted than usual,” he suggested. 

“To the point of inviting himself here? If he were in his right mind, Draco would realise that would make me certain something is up.” 

“I suppose.” Harry looked longingly out the window, where broom riders occasionally could be seen above the treetops. 

“Will you run a check for Dark Magic on Monday?” It was the real reason she had asked Harry. He was Draco's manager, so he could easily come up with a reason why it was vital Draco was scanned for any contact with the Dark Arts without raising any suspicions. The diagnostic tools in the Auror Office made a mockery of any attempt to try at home, not to mention that Hermione wasn't very keen on hoping Draco would sleep through her doing magic on him. 

Getting his boss to do it instead was almost a Slytherin manoeuvre – Draco would be proud if he ever found out. 

“Sure.” Harry did not seem overly concerned about compromising his ethics either. 

“Go on then. Get out there and play some Quidditch.”

It got a smile out of him, before he clattered down the stairs on his way to the brook cupboard. Hermione lingered, feeling an absurd sense of comfort looking at Ron's tattered Quidditch posters. 

Some things never changed.

* * *

“All clear.” Harry grimaced put his cup with lukewarm tea down on the table again. Hermione could not blame him – she had been waiting for him for half an hour, and the tea hadn't exactly bene stellar to start with. 

The canteen was relatively quiet – unfortunately the lunchtime hordes had not left as much as a scone behind, or Hermione might consider a repeat visit. 

“Nothing at all?” 

“Nope. As it happens, he had to do one a month ago, so we could compare against that.” 

Hermione couldn't decide if she was disappointed or relieved. “Maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill.” 

“Maybe. I overheard him telling Jenkins he'd see him down the pub later, so I doubt it.” Harry looked glum.

* * *

Not particularly keen on going home, Hermione stayed in the office until everyone else had gone. Her case files could really do with a complete overhaul – it was virtually a breach of her duties a law enforcement official to allow flimsy filing to persist. 

It was more soothing to do it the Muggle way; besides, she wasn't too keen on magic at the moment. 

Just once, it would be nice if magic could actually solve her problems rather than just causing them. Hermione closed a ring-binder with unnecessary violence and shoved it into it's place. Three done, sixty- No, seventy-one to do.

* * *

Draco was already asleep by the time she slipped into bed next to him. As usual when given free reign, he was spread across her side of the bed too – his soft breathing didn't even change as she shoved his legs and arm back where they belonged. 

It felt right to lie next to him – sleep had washed away all the strangeness, and all that remained was her Draco, the way he was supposed to be. 

Like an octopus sensing its prey, he soon turned on his side and snuggled up to Hermione, slinging a heavy arm around her. She did not have the heart to push him away, even though the heat was enough to break her out in a sweat. 

Instead, she settled in, drifting off to sleep with the soft wheeze of his breath in her ear.

* * *

Hermione woke up thinking she was still dreaming. 

Draco was there, propped up on his elbow, looking at her with the smile he only brought out for special occasions. His hair glowed like a halo in the morning sun creeping through the venetian blind, bathing their bedroom in a golden glow. 

“Morning.” 

Hermione had to clear her throat before she could relocate her voice. “Morning.” 

“Can you imagine that we'll be husband and wife in only a few months' time? Wife. Husband.” Draco tried on the words like a new set of robes. 

“Getting cold feet?” Hermione slid down from the pillow so she was lying right below Draco's chin, looking into his eyes upside down. They were soft grey and creased around the edges, and the little knot of anxiety that seemed to have taken up permanent residency in her stomach finally dissolved. 

“Nah. Imagine having to write to all our guests to announce the wedding isn't happening after all.” He shuddered theatrically. “I'd rather marry She-Weasley than that.” 

She was quite sure it wasn't a dream now – only the real Draco was this obnoxious. “Her name is Ginny.” 

“Ginny, She-Weasley – you know who I mean, don't you?” Draco rolled his eyes, and Hermione could have cried with happiness. 

Everything was going to be all right. 

“You?” The question didn't penetrate her bliss for a few moments, and when she emerged he looked uncharacteristically uncertain. 

“No!” Hermione hurried to reassure him. “I do think it's ridiculous there has to be such a fuss about it, but I'm even willing to put up with colour-coordinated napkins and Great-Auntie Muriel to get married to you. If that's not love, I don't know what is.” 

The corners of his mouth creased as well – it was surprisingly disconcerting to see his smile upside down. Hermione put her arms around him to pull him down and around, so they were lying side to side instead. 

Draco leaned forward until his nose was touching hers. 

It was too close to keep looking at him, but even when Hermione closed her eyes all she could see was him. She felt his fingers gliding down her temple, caressing her cheek before skipping to her collarbone and then down her waist. 

He kissed her, and she kissed him back, turning all the pent-up frustration and fear from the last fortnight into burning desire. 

They were going to set things right, to celebrate everything finally was the way it should be. Draco kicked off his pyjama bottoms while she rid herself of her camisole and they got down to the serious business of making love after almost a month of going without. 

Draco was touching her in all the right places – by now, Hermione was usually able to mute her rational self, if not get rid of it completely. 

Today, something was different. 

Usually, he would drive her mad alternating featherlight and firm touches, as if he could read her mind mid-coitus, playing her like a violin. Now, his hands and tongue were urgent and almost harsh, like he was ticking boxes on a checklist rather than calling her back from the brink to make the final release more powerful. 

If Hermione had wanted bad sex, she would have stayed with Ron. 

This did not feel like Draco. The feeling of something being terribly wrong had returned, with a vengeance – it was no longer content to sit at the back of her mind. 

“Stop,” she panted. Draco's head was bent down, but he showed no sign of having heard her. “Stop, Draco,” Hermione said louder, already stretching out to grab her wand without any conscious decision. She could feel her hair standing up of its own accord, magic surging with the adrenaline firing up her veins. 

“What?” He looked up, for all the world as if he had been disturbed washing the dishes

Not that he ever had washed any dishes in his life, now that Hermione thought about it – house-elves and magic had ensured Draco was mostly unbothered by menial tasks. The immediate relief was making her lightheaded, and she had to force herself to return to the present. 

“Was I doing something wrong?” He did not seem particularly troubled by the possibility. 

“You know what – I'm actually knackered. I just can't get into it,” Hermione said, hoping she sounded breezy rather than unhinged. “Try again soon?” 

“Sure,” Draco rolled over, content to fidget with his wand while she laid next to him, desperately trying not to cry.


	3. Chapter 3

When Draco had gone to his parents for lunch, Hermione considered her options. It spoke volumes for how much Draco had rubbed off on her that she had yet taken the obvious route and asked him straight out if anything was wrong. 

Admittedly, it was partly because she suspected something had been done to him, in which case he may not even be aware of it. If something sinister was at play, she did not want to tip him off that she had noticed. 

The one thing she was sure of was both deeply suspicious and absolutely bewildering. 

Draco had been different ever since returning from his family estate in France. The timing virtually screamed of Lucius Malfoy being behind it, but the slippery bastard would never leave his fingerprints behind so obviously if he really had done something. 

The announcement of their engagement several months ago was also a mitigating factor, until she remembered that Malfoy the elder happily had waited decades previously before paying off old scores. 

For Lucius, all that would count was that Draco and Hermione weren't married yet – he would not have a problem waiting for the most opportune moment to allay suspicion. 

Which brought her back to the same issue: why would Lucius be stupid enough to do something to Draco when he would be the prime suspect? 

Hermione sighed. 

Perhaps a Gryffindor solution to a Slytherin problem could be helpful – at least, it would hardly make things worse. 

To ask Lucius what the hell was going on, she would have to pay a visit to Malfoy Manor. Merlin knew nothing good had come out of her previous ones.

* * *

“I'm afraid I can't help you, Miss Granger.” The urbane smile made Hermione's spine tingle, the way her ancestors might have reacted when they spotted a sabre-toothed tiger eyeing them up. “I have been informed my son's choice of partner is his own affair, so naturally I am loathe to meddle even if there is trouble in paradise. Duffy will show you out.” 

“I don't know what you have done to Draco, but I will find out.” The heat of Hermione's stare should have made his unbearably pretentious hair catch fire, but Lucius appeared unmoved. “You can deny it all you like – it's as obvious as the stray grey hair in your right eyebrow that you're behind this, and you will pay for it. Your master couldn't stop me and my friends, so I doubt you will be able to.” 

He blinked at the mention of Voldemort – presumably his circles liked to pretend the war had never happened, just like Basil Fawlty – but it was the mention of his greying hair that made Lucius twitch. 

Recovering quickly, he bowed to her and gesticulated towards the house-elf that had appeared at his left elbow. “Good day to you, Miss Granger.” 

Hermione didn't bother replying – Lucius Malfoy would find out soon enough this was not the end of the matter, but she was not going to waste as much as a single syllable on him until then. Anger had temporarily gained the upper hand on fear and she wasted valuable seconds seething inwardly before she noticed Duffy was not taking her to the entrance hall. 

Duffy bowed so deep her the tea towel draped around her waist hit the floor, and vanished. Hermione was left facing an ashen-faced Narcissa Malfoy, who looked like she had not slept for weeks. 

“There is a way to get him back,” the lady of the house started without preamble. “If you really love Draco, there is a way you can save him.” 

Hermione felt her jaw drop in disbelief. “You really have a skewed view of the world if you think I would take on all this –“ she swept her arm around the room, pointing at the ornate rococo chairs and the towering portraits of stern ancestors, flanked by a flesh-eating Amaryllis that snapped at her fingers – “if I didn't. Believe me, if it weren't for Draco this is the last place I'd go.” 

Gryffindor honesty won over Slytherin caution – or perhaps Narcissa saw the anguish in Hermione's eyes, just like her own. 

The one thing they had in common was the only thing that mattered now. 

“The enchantment Lucius has put on Draco can be reversed. By true love.” The ghost of a smile flitted across Narcissa's desiccated lips. “I should warn you it will be dangerous.” 

Hermione sighed. She already knew she would have to try, no matter what, but she was really hoping it wasn't a trap. “It always is, isn't it? What do I need to do?”

Narcissa moved closer, like a shadow drifting across the room. “There is a woman in Ireland – she sounds like a charlatan, but she can get you across to the other side,” she almost whispered, and Hermione wondered where Lucius had got to. She had other things to worry about, though. 

“Then what? What's on the other side, anyway?” 

“You must find the silver thread. It will lead you to him,” Narcissa said as if it made perfect sense. 

“And then I just bring him back – the real him? As he was before?” Hermione remembered Narcissa had been born a Black. Madness was always an option. 

“Yes.” Summoning a piece of parchment, Narcissa carefully wrote down the address ending with a flourish. “Don't look back,” she advised by way of goodbye. “Never look back, or it will end badly.” 

“ _You mean it could get worse_?” Hermione asked, but she was already being escorted to the Apparition parlour by the hapless Duffy.

* * *

_Josephine O'Connor  
15 Arbour Drive  
Castleknock  
Dublin_

Hermione had eyed the slip of parchment dubiously to start with – did the Malfoys even know normal people's houses had numbers, rather than names? - but it was nothing compared to her disbelief once she laid eyes on Arbour Drive (adjacent to Arbour Close, Arbour Lane and Arbour Walk). 

Rows upon rows of terraced four- and five-bedroom houses from the Eighties, complete with converted garages and the occasional front extension, looked indistinguishable from their British equivalents. They were slightly less nice than Privet Drive, or Hermione would have thought she had gone around the bend and stepped into a hallucination. 

As it were, the improbability of Narcissa Malfoy ever setting her foot in this most Muggle of streets had her reeling. 

Hermione may not know her very well, but she did know Draco. 

Over the years, the gaps in his knowledge about how the other half lived (“What do you mean – ironing? I thought it was one of those house-elf things humans can't do?”) had led her to believe he had much more in common with Justin Finch-Fletchley – at least before the latter had started Hogwarts and ended up at the bottom of the pile, as it were – than either of them realised. 

In the normal course of events, Hermione would not have realised how her own life had been insulated by privilege either. However, the end of the wizarding war had left her adrift in the Muggle world, with little money and only an expired passport to prove her identity, not to mention having experienced life on the run. 

Draco, for all the hardship he had indeed experienced, had still had a comfortable bed and three meals a day to look forward to, and his ancestral home had survived relatively intact. 

His mother was precisely the sort of woman who would ask why the peasants couldn't eat cake when they ran out of bread, so Hermione failed to see her connection to the mysterious Josephine O'Connor. Perhaps it was some sort of joke. 

Perhaps it was a trap.

Hermione had carried her wand in her sleeve since emerging from her International Portkey in the Dublin Magical Transport Office, hidden in a back alley off O'Connell Street. She had looked up the location on her parents' laptop in advance, learning she would be able to get a bus from there. If it were an ambush, she figured they would be less likely to see her coming that way. 

Unless the Malfoys had hired someone conversant with the Muggle world to help bring her down, at least. 

There was nothing for it – she would have to ring the doorbell, or she would always wonder if there had been something she could have done to save Draco. 

_Damn_ Lucius Malfoy. 

Hermione walked up the tarmacked driveway, past the blue Ford Fiesta. If there was a pure-blood conspiracy behind this, their camouflage was exquisite. 

She rang the doorbell, and a snotty teenager answered the door, tugging at his hoodie. 

“How are ya? Looking for for someone?” The teenager turned around without waiting for Hermione to answer, hollering “Ma! Another one for you!” 

He disappeared up the stairs, leaving Hermione looking at the cream carpet in the dim hall. A door opened at the end, revealing a silhouette outlined against a sudden burst of sunlight.

“Come on in, then,” the apparition said. Hermione told herself firmly the vagaries of the Irish weather should not be interpreted as a sign, either of divine grace or a lack thereof. 

The kitchen at the back had clearly had a facelift since the house was built – it was all chrome and shining granite. 

“I'm Josie. Have a seat.” The woman gesticulated towards one of the uncomfortably high chairs at the glass table. Hermione climbed up, not even certain she was in the right house. 

“You'll have a cup of tea.” It wasn't a question – Josie boiled the shining red kettle and poured out two cups, before sitting down opposite Hermione. Her eyes were a vivid blue, at odds with her distinctly average face – they made her look like a woman to be reckoned with. 

Hermione realised she had barely uttered a word since ringing the doorbell. If Ron had been there, rather than hiding with Harry in the neighbours' rhododendron bushes to make sure this wasn't some Malfoy trick, he would undoubtedly had pointed out it was some sort of record. 

“It's a bit hard to explain,” Hermione began, debating how to establish whether Josie was magic or Muggle. 

“You don't have to go all the way back to when you got your Hogwarts letter, you know.” Maybe the woman was a mindreader. “Most people who come here have a problem, so why don't you start with that?” 

Or perhaps she had just had a lot of visitors. 

“I'm concerned about my fiancé. He's not behaving like himself.” Hermione was starting to regret this – how would she explain? 

“Pre-wedding jitters? 

“No. He's the one who wanted to get married, anyway. It's like – it's like he's not himself anymore. Like there's a stranger there instead.” Saying it out loud in that ultramodern kitchen made it seem much worse. Hermione had been afraid of seeming ridiculous – she felt like crying instead now that she had said it out loud. 

“Again – it's not unheard of. Men aren't great at breaking up, in general. Sometimes they act like like eejits so they get dumped instead.” Josie could have been one of her mother's friends, dispensing worldly advice. 

“He doesn't know things he should know – things like what bloody food he likes, for heaven's sake!” Hermione brushed away a tear like it was a personal insult. “It's like he's read up on what he needs to do to pretend to be himself, but he fails occasionally when putting it into practice. It's not just me, his mother knows something is wrong, too. She's the one who gave me your address.” 

“I see. You didn't consider contacting St. Mungo's instead? Or the Aurors, at a push?” 

“I did – in a way. They didn't find anything, but they did a very thorough check.” Harry had some of the best Healers in Britain subcontracted to the Auror Office. They had checked absolutely everything. 

“Usually it helps if I can meet the person. I need to get some idea of what I'm dealing with –“ Josie spread her hands wide, and Hermione remembered she still had no idea what actually went on here. 

“His mother said something about a silver thread, and an enchantment...” She tried to recall every word. 

“A silver thread?” Josie's voice was sharp, and she was leaning forward. 

“Yes.” 

“Has he got any enemies?” 

Hermione laughed, but it didn't sound anything like a laugh. “The length and breadth of England. Plus his father isn't exactly pleased we're getting married – I think he'd prefer a banshee for a daughter-in-law.”

Josie did not say anything. She simply sat there, like her mind had decamped elsewhere. Hermione was reminded about Luna, who also seemed to slip away from the present occasionally. She did not expect Luna to solve her problems, however, so it was less disconcerting then. 

“I'll need to set things up,” Josie announced, businesslike again. She was halfway out of her chair, radiating a sense of purpose so strong the neighbours must feel it. 

“I see,” Hermione mumbled, doing anything but. 

“Come back tonight, at eight. The kids will be out then, so no need to worry about them.”

* * *

Dismissed, Hermione wandered the deserted streets. Short of the occasional mother with a buggy, there was no one around, so she risked pulling out her Muggle mobile. 

_where are you?_

Harry had not been keen on using mobiles, but Hermione had pointed out that if it took the Auror Office six months and four boxes of forms to access Muggle surveillance records in Britain, even Lucius Malfoy was unlikely to magic up real-time interception in a different country. 

_She has to set something up (not sure what yet), so I'm walking around – will go back at eight. You?_ she typed back. 

_stuck under bush – neighbour's cat keeps cosying up to ron, but no one else has spotted us_

_no trace of magic other than residue from you_

Hermione brightened up – there was a bunch of shops hidden in the middle of the residential streets. She might even be able to get something to eat when the chipper opened. After considering telling Harry, she snapped her mobile shut – better not tempt him. Surely seasoned Aurors would bring sandwiches, or something?

Thinking about food, she got a feeling she had missed something. 

Something important, like there was something she shouldn't have done – like drinking the tea Josie had offered. 

She told herself firmly not to be ridiculous – there had not been one whiff of magic in the house. If Harry and Ron had not detected anything amiss, she didn't need to worry.


	4. Chapter 4

Josie opened the door this time. She was dressed in the same jeans and jumper as before, but she had tied her hair back in a ponytail. 

Hermione hovered over the threshold – something had shifted, and suddenly entering the house seemed like a commitment to things unknown. Was she really going to trust this woman on the say-so of Narcissa Malfoy? 

She took the step, after deciding she had to; at least she had the comfort of her friends keeping watch nearby. 

“This way,” Josie said, leading her into the hitherto unseen sitting room. It had a large leather couch, rather loud wallpaper and a burning fire, at odds with the temperature outside. On a table in the middle of the room was a large bowl filled with water. The bowl itself didn't fit into the room, or even the house – it was made from jagged stone and carried an indefinable air of age. 

Hermione was about to touch it before she thought better of if and pulled back her hand. It was time for some answers. 

“What is it you do? And who are you, exactly?” 

Josie didn't bother pretending she didn't know what Hermione was talking about. “I'm a Squib, but I've got Second Sight. I can see into the Otherworld. From what you're telling me, I think your fiancé has been banished there, even though he's still alive.” 

Hermione wasn't sure she believed in the Otherworld, but that wasn't her primary concern right now. “Are you going to bring him back?” 

“I can't.” There was a finality to it that made Hermione believe her entirely, even though she still thought Josie might be making the rest of it up. “You might be able to, though. If you are willing, and if you truly love him.” 

“What do you want me to do, exactly?” 

“I don't want you to do anything. You must enter by your own free will – that's crucial. If you're the least bit uncertain about this, you should leave now.” 

“I would like to know what 'this' is, before I can make my mind up about it.” Hermione snapped. “If you're not using magic, what are you doing?” 

“I can open a door between the worlds and show you how to cross over. It's a gift – it's not magic as you know it, but to Muggles the distinction would be meaningless.” Josie looked weary for a moment, and Hermione wondered if the teenager had any idea what was going on when he was out for the evening. “Once you're there, you need to find your – your fiancé, was it? I can help you to some extent, but only you can find him and bring him back.” 

“Can I bring my wand? Will it work?” 

Josie looked surprised. “I don't see why not. Your magic won't be able to change the fundamental facts, however – it's a separate realm with its own rules, and to come back safely you must do as I say.” 

Hermione knew she should stand up and leave. She didn't even believe in this rubbish, how could she possibly cling to the hope that she would be able to save Draco by pretending she did? She knew she wouldn't, though – if there was even the glimmer of a chance of getting Draco back to his normal self, she was going to take it. 

“Which is what, exactly?” she asked instead. If she was doing this at all, she may as well do it right.

* * *

In recognition of the momentousness of the occasion, Josie had got them fresh cups of tea. Hermione only pretended to drink it, but soon her concerns faded into insignificance compared to what she was faced with next. 

Josie had been adamant: if Hermione wanted to find her way out of the Otherworld, she would have to give up one strand of her hair. 

To a Muggle it didn't sound like much, but even a second-year student at Hogwarts knew the power of bits that once had been part of themselves, especially when given willingly. The only reason Hermione was willing to let go of something so powerful was Harry and Ron in the neighbour's back garden – if there was a hint of Dark magic, or any magic at all, they would intervene before Hermione could even draw her wand. 

Some things were better left to the professionals. 

All Hermione needed to do was to remember to retrieve the hair before she left, and she should be safe. Assuming this Otherworld business didn't go pear-shaped, anyway. 

“Ready?” Josie put her cup down slightly too fast. This wasn't a walk in the park to her either, no matter how hard she tried to give off the impression it was no more exotic than washing the dishes. 

“As ready as I'll ever be.” Hermione pulled out one curly hair and handed it over, feeling Mad-Eye's ghost wince somewhere across the Irish Sea. 

Josie leaned over the stone bowl and closed her eyes, slowly lowering the hair. When it touched the surface the clear water turned dark. It looked like lightning had struck in the bowl, flashes of light chasing across the sides so quick Hermione had to see it a few times to believe she wasn't imagining things. 

Josie was still holding the hair but it had turned into a silver thread, almost as thick as yarn. “Follow this. Don't pick it up, or you won't find your way back again. And don't look back. Whatever you do, don't look back.” 

Hermione remembered Narcissa Malfoy's warning and shivered. She checked her mobile, just in case – not a word from Harry. 

There was nothing for it: she leaned forward, across the stone bowl, and stretched her hand out to Josie's to grab the thread.

* * *

“Harry!” 

“What?” They were taking turns, and Harry had nodded off while Ron kept watch. Ten bloody hours in a bush was a long time. 

“Something's happening –“ Ron began, but Harry had already deduced as much and was checking his modified Sneakoscope. They worked furiously for a few seconds, casting diagnostic spells and checking their wards held, but it soon became obvious nothing magical was going on, at least. 

“I could have sworn there was something – like a blip.” Some people thought Ron just tagged along with Harry, becoming an Auror because his best friend was. It only went to show how little they knew. If those doubting Ron's abilities had ever been on stake-out with him, they would have known he picked up on the slightest portent anything was wrong, like a human Sneakoscope. 

“When you say a blip –“ 

Ron looked pale. “Like she wasn't there, all of a sudden.“ 

They got their wands out at the same time. “Homenum Revelio!” 

There was precisely one person inside the semi-detached house in front of them, and it wasn't Hermione. 

“Time to go in,” Harry said, clutching his wand so tight he could feel the blood pounding in his hand. Hermione had made it very clear they were only to burst in if the house went on fire or someone cast the peacetime equivalent to a Morsmordre, but she would just have to put up with it. 

“Wait! What about that mobile thing – did she send a page?” 

“Text,” Harry muttered automatically as he checked his mobile quicker than he had ever done in his life. 

_Going to something called the Otherworld, back soon. Don't get knickers in a twist unless haven't texted back in an hour. /Otter_

“Guess we'll have to sit tight.” Harry leaned back, but kept his wand at the ready. The problem with Hermione was that she was so sensible most of the time, so when she decided to take a risk she was completely reckless.

* * *

The walls were damp, with green moss growing between slabs of unhewn rock. The flickering light of a torch revealed a tunnel stretching into the darkness, gently sloping downwards. Hermione almost turned around to see what was behind her, before she remembered Josie's dire warnings. 

To her relief, the silver thread was still there on the ground – it twinkled in the dim light. She set out after it, down into the unknown. 

The light of another torch appeared in the distance when Hermione had almost resigned herself to walking in darkness. It was only then she remembered her wand. Her whispered “Lumos!” echoed like she was surrounded by an army of witches, but the relief when it worked made up for the temporary fright. 

If she had magic, surely the Otherworld would be manageable. 

Down, down she went, until her legs were sore and her feet sopping wet, her sensible shoes no match for the constant drip-drip-drip from the ceiling and the walls. It was oddly peaceful here – her heart had stopped hammering and the urgency from before had faded with the monotonous march downwards. 

She barely noticed at first, but soon it became evident that the tunnel had stopped sloping downwards and the torches got closer and closer together. The rough stone of the walls was changing too, becoming smoother. 

Hermione barely had time to register the changes before she realised she knew where she was. This was the Hogwarts dungeons, and she would soon pass by the Potions classroom. 

Only this wasn't Hogwarts, not her version of it anyway, and she must be very, very careful. Casting a quick Self-Disillusionment charm (having Auror friends had its perks), she hoped she would be invisible to the inhabitants of the caste. 

Whoever they were. 

The Potions classroom was deserted, and Hermione didn't even bother looking into what once had been Professor Snape's office – she couldn't imagine there was anything she'd like to see in there. The silver thread urged her on, winding its way on the familiar stone floor worn soft by being trod on for a thousand years. 

She reached the staircase, climbing upwards for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Daylight streaming through the open doors in the Entrance Hall nearly blinded her, and she narrowly averted crashing into a group of students – first-years, by the looks of them – who were rushing down to the dungeons. 

Skirting the walls, Hermione instinctively looked at the hourglasses. Ravenclaw was doing well as per usual, Hufflepuff was not far behind, with Gryffindor and Slytherin trailing behind. It wasn't even Christmas yet – plenty of time to catch up, she told herself, forgetting for a moment it wasn't even real. 

The only thing was real in here was the silver thread, leading up the marble staircase. 

Gaggles of unfamiliar students came and went, and Hermione tried to look at their faces to see if she knew them before deciding it hardly mattered. She didn't even know when this version of Hogwarts was from; thankfully, the lack of Educational Decrees meant it wasn't during Umbridge's time, at least. 

Taking care not to push into anyone, she continued on her way up the stairs. A burly teenager came running down, almost crashing into her, until Hermione remembered at the last second he couldn't see her. 

She had to rest for a few seconds with her back against the wall to calm down afterwards, thankful for her firm grasp on her wand – it could easily have been knocked out of her hand. 

Up, up Hermione went, staying clear of students, even giving ghosts a wide berth. 

When she reached the seventh floor, the thread took her down a familiar corridor. It wouldn't have made sense for Draco to be in the Gryffindor common room, but his soul being hidden in the Room of Requirement seemed like the most natural thing in the world. 

She remembered what Josie had said: “He might not look the same, down there. It's by his soul you will know him – that's why only those who truly love can bring someone back.”

It didn't matter which world they were in – Hermione loved Draco just the same, and she was going to bring him home. 

Opening the creaking door, she peered into the darkness.

* * *

“Surprise!” Wands flashed, fireworks went off and confetti littered the air. A gigantic Weasley-issue cake was proudly displayed in the middle of the room, and all her friends surrounded it. Ron was brandishing a bottle of champagne, and Ginny started the singing: "Happy birthday to you..."

Hermione peered around the happy faces – Seamus, Harry, Lavender, Neville, Luna, Terry. Draco was nowhere to be seen, and everyone looked very young. Too young. 

“No,” she said loudly. This was her twentieth birthday. Draco turning up would have been as incongruous as Hagrid insisting on having a gin and tonic instead of a barrel of beer. 

She blinked. 

The next time she opened her eyes, she was in the Ministry canteen and Ron had grown a beard – it could be any time during the last few years. She may have to apologise to him later, as he was telling Harry about the latest Nimbus – this was the one-in-a-million occasion where a working knowledge of Quidditch actually would have been useful. 

She looked around for Draco and found him a few tables away, reading a book. His shoulders were hunched up and his elbows tucked in like he was trying to touch as little of the Ministry-issue chair as possible. 

It didn't look promising, but Hermione approached him anyway. 

“Draco – “ she said tentatively. 

He dropped his book and reached for his wand quicker than she could blink – when she looked up the Ministry was gone, and all she could see was a heath stretching out beneath the rolling clouds of a sky full of rain. 

Hermione was standing in a small hollow, where the undergrowth had been burnt away, and she was surrounded by Death Eaters. 

The shook of seeing the hooded figures that stalked her nightmares made her hand shake, but she didn't lose her grasp on her wand. Facing them head-on, she spun around the circle until she found who she was looking for. 

He was slighter than the others, and beneath his hood a tell-tale strand of white-blond hair had slipped out. 

Hermione did not need any confirmation – she could read everything she needed in the set of his shoulders and the way he kept his wand arm close to his body to keep it from shaking. 

She stretched out her hand. “Draco, let's go home.” 

A bird sang with reckless abandon in the sky above them. Apart from the heavy breathing from the man behind her she had recognised as Dolohov, it was all Hermione could hear. 

Had she been wrong? Was it the right time, or should she have waited again? It was impossible to know, but Hermione cursed the impulse that had made her reach out to Draco at his most vulnerable, at his Death Eater initiation when he had realised just what he had signed up for. 

If she had been there at the time when it really had happened, maybe things had turned out differently – 

Of course it would have, she told herself sternly. She would have died within five seconds. Just like she might now, as soon as the senior Death Eaters recognised the Muggle-born amongst them. 

A pale hand grabbed hers like it was a lifeline thrown to a drowning man, and everything flickered. Hermione dove to the ground, pulling Draco with her, as the Death Eaters belatedly started throwing curses, and suddenly they were in the middle of the battle of Hogwarts. 

Giant spiders were chasing the fighters and curses flashed through the air. Hermione was about to throw herself into the fray when she remembered that the battle had been fought and won more than a decade ago. 

Apparently, it was possible to become even more frightened than she already was. 

“The thread! We have to find the silver thread!” she shouted to Draco, who didn't look like he knew which way was up and which was down. 

“What have we got here – a little Muggle? Did you got lost, dear?” One did not forget what Bellatrix Lestrange's voice sounded like, no matter how long she had been dead. Hermione decided the thread could wait, and planted her legs firmly apart. 

“Are you offering to show me the way out? I'm afraid witches are not to be trusted in Muggle stories, so I may just have to kill you instead.”

Bellatrix burst into a peal of laughter, cocking her head to one side as they circled around, wand pointing at wand. “I'd like to see you try, girl!” 

Draco hovered at Hermione's elbow, and she shook him off irritably. “Not now!”

“The thread! I found it, it leads to a door – “ 

Hermione returned to her senses, but she did not let her eyes slip off Bellatrix for a second. “Where?” 

“This way!” Draco pointed to an unobtrusive door she never had seen at the real Hogwarts, and Hermione channelled all the power she could summon into a variation on the Blasting curse she had mastered long after the last time she had faced Bellatrix: 

_“Confringo!”_

She grabbed Draco's hand and ran, following the silver thread through the open door and into the darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione's phone was buzzing in her pocket when she lifted her drenched face, looking around the suburban living room like she had never seen it before. She ignored the phone while she paid Josie with a thick wad of euro notes she had got from the Muggle bank (the wizarding world had it easy – Galleons worked as well in Dublin as in London) and mumbled a few words of thanks. She was in such a rush to get out of there, she had no idea what she was saying.

Josie didn't seem perturbed by Hermione's incoherence – she might have people stumbling though her sitting room every day of the week, for all Hermione knew.

As soon as Hermione got to the top of the road, she pulled her phone out. There was still fifteen minutes before the cavalry would charge in, so she texted Harry to call them off before she did anything else.

Then she looked at her missed calls, and her heart almost leapt out of her chest.

There were four missed calls from Draco, all within the last ten minutes since she had emerged from the stone bowl. Whatever had happened it the Otherworld, it seemed to have affected Draco in the ordinary world as well.

Hermione's hand was shaking as she called him back. She was trembling with a mix of fear and hope and blessed relief.

* * *

Harry and Ron had gone hours ago – they had insisted on seeing Hermione in the flesh before returning to their respective homes, and Draco had given her impatience short shrift.

“It's the least they can do,” he'd said. Only the certainty that he would have plenty more to say to Hermione had saved him from being taken to task for being a patronising bastard.

The relief of having Draco back made it almost impossible for Hermione to imagine how things would appear from his point of view. It took a little while to bring him up to date, as the last thing he could recall was departing for his unfortunate trip.

“What the _fuck_ made you go to Ireland with only the Weasel and The-Boy-Who-Should-Know-Better as your backup? Did you expect them to read tea leaves out in the bushes to find out what you were doing inside, because that would have been about as useful as what they actually were doing?” Draco was striding around the room, which was annoying since all Hermione wanted to do was to look at him.

“All's well that ends well, surely?”

“But what if it hadn't?” The naked fear on his face finally made Hermione realise she had cut him to the quick – if Draco admitted to having feelings at all, he was deeply perturbed.

“I couldn't think of what else to do,” she confessed.

“If anything like this ever happens again, don't do it. It's not worth it.”

She tilted her chin upwards at him. “That's for me to decide. I never thought you, of all people, would come over all noble and self-sacrificing.”

“It's not self-sacrificing to have priorities.” Trust Draco to try to twist her point, even when he was arguing the opposite of what he usually would say. To openly abandon any pretence of Slytherin self-preservation for a frankly Gryffindor stance just showed how he had been knocked off his balance.

Clearly, it was up to Hermione to find a solution. “Why don't we make it a priority to make sure nothing like this will happen again? Can you live with that?”

“I suppose.” Draco's face hardened, and Hermione felt compelled to add:

“There will be no discussion about who was responsible. Not tonight.”

“Not tonight,” he agreed, his shoulders dropping and his posture melting until he was almost wrapped around Hermione. “I don't know why I'm so tired,” he mumbled to her hair. “I've been asleep for more than a month. Or whatever I've been.”

Hermione tugged gently at his arm and they staggered into the bedroom, a tangled mess of limbs collapsing into a pile on the bed.

The kiss came out of nowhere. Somehow, Draco had summoned enough energy to wrap his arms around her, and it was simply too nice to feel the real him touching her again to go to sleep.

* * *

Later, as she finally drifted off to sleep, Hermione managed to remember what else had happened that day.

She even managed to muster a smile.

They had won; Draco and Hermione had won against Lucius Malfoy and everyone else who wanted to keep them apart, and although she wasn't fool enough to believe the rest of their lives together would be smooth sailing, victory was still sweet.

Even better was the feeling of falling asleep wrapped around Draco, breathing in his smell and knowing it was it was truly him this time.

Everything was going to be all right.

* * *

Draco stretched his legs out, putting his hands behind his neck, careful not to touch the woman sleeping next to him. When Father told him about Granger's trip, the bit about his soul had made him laugh out loud.

The joke was on her – Draco didn't have one anymore.

He touched his chest. It didn't feel any different; Potter hadn't been able to detect any dark magic, because there was nothing there anymore.

The fire had burnt the heart and soul out of him, just the way it was meant to. Draco shuddered when he remembered the pitiful cries from him-from-before, as his heart was consumed by the flames. Afterwards, his father had told him to eat it – that way, Draco would retain all the memories of his former self.

The burnt bits were gone forever, though – that was why he had slipped up occasionally.

Granger had been foolish to believe anything would pass in Malfoy Manor that his father would not be aware of. One could not expect a Mudblood to understand wizards, he could see that now. Draco from before, the wayward blood traitor who believed he needed to make amends for simply being a Malfoy, had believed he loved her.

Love was not a necessary emotion, and Draco was glad to be free even of the pretence of it.

Granger was bound to him now. From the moment she had drunk the tea offered by the very obliging Josie O'Connor (at a price – everything came at a price), she had willingly entered the enchantment that would tie her to Draco's will forever. She had chosen to cross into the otherworld. Once she had entered, whatever powers the Irishwoman possessed had enthralled her without requiring one whit of magic that could tip off Potter or anyone else that something was wrong.

She might become tiresome in her devotion to him, but she would not question him again.

If he looked closely, he could see the faint silver web wrapped around Granger, almost indistinguishable in the darkness. The barely-there glow would only be visible to him, no one else, but it tied her to him lime nothing else could, not even an _Imperius_ curse.

Father had been right: there was no point discarding Granger when she could still be useful. Far better to milk the connection for all it was worth, to reestablish their name and ensure the Malfoys regained their proper position. Then, she could be cast aside for a pure-blood bride, who would give him heirs.

Lucius would arrange it – all Draco needed to do was to make sure he was far away when it happened.

Everything was going to be all right.

 

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, folks - if you have any feedback at all, good or bad, please leave a comment so I know what to do for my next story. Thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for I Will Find You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11921322) by [patriciatepes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patriciatepes/pseuds/patriciatepes)




End file.
